Mr. Zhang handed me this rubbing from the Stone Drums
And urged me to compose a Stone Drum Song.
Shaoling has lost its Du Fu, Li Bo “the immortal” is dead—
What can my poor talent do for the Stone Drums?
When the Zhou laws decayed and the Four Seas heaved in turmoil,
King Xuan rose in anger and brandished his sacred sword,
And wide swung the doors of Bright Hall to receive the congratulations
Of feudal princes with their swords and jangling pendants.
To the hunt at Qiyang galloped the brave and handsome,
Birds and game lay strewn over countless miles:
All was wonderfully chiseled in stone, to inform ten thousand generations.
Rock was broken from rough hillsides, shaped into drums;
Attendant ministers skilled in the arts, each of the first rank,
Were chosen to carve and inscribe them, and set them on the mountain.
Ram drenched, sun baked, wild fire burned them,
Spirits guarded, and drove away what would harm them
Where could you have found this sheet of tracing?
Obsolutely complete down to the finest stroke, with no error.
the severe in expression, obscure in meaning, hard to understand,
the style of calligraphy neither “official” nor “tadpole”—
in such antiquity, how could it escape disfigurement?
the strokes like living dragons, hewn with a keen sword,
Like phoenix flying and argus wheeling, a crowd of immortals descending,
Sea corals and jade trees with branches firmly entwined,
Or golden cords and iron wires strongly twisted and locked,
Like ancient tripods skipping into water or shuttles soaring like dragons
Ignorant scholars collecting poems forgot to include these;
The two books of Solemn Songs were too narrow, lacked scope.
Confucius traveling westward did not reach Qin State—
He gathered a constellation of stars but missed the sun and moon!
How sad that I who love the old culture was born too late!
I look at the drums, and tears stream from my eyes.
I remember, long ago, being summoned to receive my doctorate,
The year when the reign title changed to Yuan-he:
An old friend with the army at You Fufeng
Advised me where these old drums were buried
I brushed my cap, washed myself, and spoke with the overseer of sacrifices—
Objects so precious, how many could there be in existence?
They should be wrapped in rugs and mats and transported forthwith.
All ten drums could be loaded on just a few camels,
And presented to the Imperial Temple, like a tripod of Gao;
Their splendor and value would increase a hundredfold.
Or if the royal bounty would present them to the University,
Many students could study and diligently decipher them.
In Han days, people came to the Capital over the great Passes, to look at the classical texts;
If these drums were set up in public, the whole country would scramble to see them.
We would scratch out the moss, scrape away lichen, expose the joints and corners,
Set them in a definite place, level and not aslant.
A great building with wide eaves should house them,
Where nothing could happen to them, as it did in the past years.
But the Court officials have grown old in service,
Will not comply with this obligation but keep procrastinating.
So herdboys use them for striking sparks, cows to rub their horns on
Who would handle them now or stroke them with affection?
Days fade and months melt away, the drums returning to dust:
Six years I looked to the west, chanting my songs in vain.
Wang Xizhi's ordinary script with its bewitching style of brushwork
Could be had, several pages of it, for a few white geese!
Eight dynasties have passed since the Zhou, and wars have ceased:
Why does nobody look after these drums?
We are at peace now, days with no disturbance,
The authorities employ scholars and respect Confucius and Mencius,
How can I bring this subject up for discussion?
I want to borrow an orator's mouth—words tumbling like a cataract!
Here I end my song of the Stone Drums—
Alas, alas! my thoughts have gone wandering!
And urged me to compose a Stone Drum Song.
Shaoling has lost its Du Fu, Li Bo “the immortal” is dead—
What can my poor talent do for the Stone Drums?
When the Zhou laws decayed and the Four Seas heaved in turmoil,
King Xuan rose in anger and brandished his sacred sword,
And wide swung the doors of Bright Hall to receive the congratulations
Of feudal princes with their swords and jangling pendants.
To the hunt at Qiyang galloped the brave and handsome,
Birds and game lay strewn over countless miles:
All was wonderfully chiseled in stone, to inform ten thousand generations.
Rock was broken from rough hillsides, shaped into drums;
Attendant ministers skilled in the arts, each of the first rank,
Were chosen to carve and inscribe them, and set them on the mountain.
Ram drenched, sun baked, wild fire burned them,
Spirits guarded, and drove away what would harm them
Where could you have found this sheet of tracing?
Obsolutely complete down to the finest stroke, with no error.
the severe in expression, obscure in meaning, hard to understand,
the style of calligraphy neither “official” nor “tadpole”—
in such antiquity, how could it escape disfigurement?
the strokes like living dragons, hewn with a keen sword,
Like phoenix flying and argus wheeling, a crowd of immortals descending,
Sea corals and jade trees with branches firmly entwined,
Or golden cords and iron wires strongly twisted and locked,
Like ancient tripods skipping into water or shuttles soaring like dragons
Ignorant scholars collecting poems forgot to include these;
The two books of Solemn Songs were too narrow, lacked scope.
Confucius traveling westward did not reach Qin State—
He gathered a constellation of stars but missed the sun and moon!
How sad that I who love the old culture was born too late!
I look at the drums, and tears stream from my eyes.
I remember, long ago, being summoned to receive my doctorate,
The year when the reign title changed to Yuan-he:
An old friend with the army at You Fufeng
Advised me where these old drums were buried
I brushed my cap, washed myself, and spoke with the overseer of sacrifices—
Objects so precious, how many could there be in existence?
They should be wrapped in rugs and mats and transported forthwith.
All ten drums could be loaded on just a few camels,
And presented to the Imperial Temple, like a tripod of Gao;
Their splendor and value would increase a hundredfold.
Or if the royal bounty would present them to the University,
Many students could study and diligently decipher them.
In Han days, people came to the Capital over the great Passes, to look at the classical texts;
If these drums were set up in public, the whole country would scramble to see them.
We would scratch out the moss, scrape away lichen, expose the joints and corners,
Set them in a definite place, level and not aslant.
A great building with wide eaves should house them,
Where nothing could happen to them, as it did in the past years.
But the Court officials have grown old in service,
Will not comply with this obligation but keep procrastinating.
So herdboys use them for striking sparks, cows to rub their horns on
Who would handle them now or stroke them with affection?
Days fade and months melt away, the drums returning to dust:
Six years I looked to the west, chanting my songs in vain.
Wang Xizhi's ordinary script with its bewitching style of brushwork
Could be had, several pages of it, for a few white geese!
Eight dynasties have passed since the Zhou, and wars have ceased:
Why does nobody look after these drums?
We are at peace now, days with no disturbance,
The authorities employ scholars and respect Confucius and Mencius,
How can I bring this subject up for discussion?
I want to borrow an orator's mouth—words tumbling like a cataract!
Here I end my song of the Stone Drums—
Alas, alas! my thoughts have gone wandering!